The Trip To Paradise

On the galley I stood. I could see, a shadowy figure, wearing a black dress and a hood. It’s stories I have heard. Legends of a lifeless captain, his boat and his bird. Fifty-four I was, till the lifeless captain took me in his masterpiece, his work, his canvas, a sea made entirely of us. Wifeless, lifeless, colorless. I was sure it wasn’t alive, he or she, it, moved like a puppet, soulless. Whilst waves of memories hit the prow, the figure proceeded to say: “These memories are you, your friends, your family, I, and where you lay.” The sentence was punctuated by a loud, distant-yet-near screech. A black crow with a silver-like beak could be seen by my curiously intrepid eyes. We reached the docks, and the figure left me beneath the cloudless skies.